This past weekend, I was rummaging around in my closet and found a notebook I kept during the sixth months I spent in Europe. I wrote this poem while I was in Dublin in April 1994. I think it captures the spirit of what was in my head and heart at the time. Enjoy.
Those Ould Turds in the Liffey
By D. Leary O’Tremmins
Cabbage and potatoes and o’ercooked carrots
Pigs and sheep that are led to the slaughter
Digested by boyos after too many pints
Hang their arses off quays and unload in the water
As the river e’er flows taking them eastward
This dung that the soused lads have been shittin’
I pray to Lord Jaysus that the Irish Sea waves
Will whisk them godspeed to those Fuckpigs in Britain
It’s been over half a year since I’ve updated this blog and I suppose some sort of explanation is in order. I blame Bush. Oh wait, he’s not president anymore. In that case, I blame Obama. Or better yet, God. Admittedly, it’s not terribly brave for an atheist to point an accusing finger at the almighty. What’s he going to do, exist?
I sometimes wonder what it would be like if I were put in charge of anything. I’ll use command of an army as an example here because there’s a bunch of cool stuff that goes with that like spiffy uniforms and killing, things not associated with say, being a regional manager for an office-supply company. So here I am, General Dave, and the situation is an unmitigated cluster fuck, but it could be worse.
I’m not the kind of spit-and-polish malevolent swine whose evil plot (e.g. a face-melting plague, human-lamprey hybrid supersoldiers etc.) has been leaked to the major news outlets and finds himself driven to suicide, reaching for the loaded pistol he keeps in his desk drawer for just an occasion. For one thing, the instrument of my demise will be a slower and less-hidden bottle of cheap hooch I keep on my table. Despite my outlandish epaulets and unkempt hair, I would be a sympathetic and all too human tragic figure, one who cannot enitrely be faulted for incompetence and bloodlust in such a dysfunctional and violent world. One of my junior officers, Lt. Rhea, is here to give me a full report of what is happening at the front.
“Is the situation dire, Rhea?” I ask. Even in the hell of war, I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to unleash this pun.
“I’m afraid so, sir. The casualties are mounting.”
“And how is the morale among the able-bodied?”
“Horny, sir. They’re mounting the casualties.”
At this point, I spout a few world-weary nuggets of old-warhorse wisdom before inviting young Lt. Rhea to join me in a drink. It’s too late though. Shrapnel from a nearby mortar explosion has sailed through a window and lobotomized him.
“I like pudding,” he says.
Now where was I? Oh that’s right, I was going to bring you up to date with all the stuff that’s on my plate:
- The first item of note is that I sort of wrote a novel. What I actually did was to put down 51K words of a rough draft. In its current state, it’s not even readable let alone publishable. It does, however, have some excellent gross-out scenes.
- My first site, platypus.org, will soon my migrated to its new home on the same server. I’ve configured a spot for in in httpd.conf. What it needs is a rewrite. It’s been gathering cobwebs since 2001.
- This blog, the one you’re looking at. Poison Spur has proven itself a good place for me to tart up my crazy for public viewing and I need to do more of that.
Anyway, that’s about it for now.